


stormy weather

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: Dame hasn’t texted CJ back.He finishes his coffee in one long, bitter pull. He should stretch, do a recovery lift, clear his head. It takes him a long moment, head hung, staring at nothing, before he does.
Relationships: Damian Lillard/CJ McCollum
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	stormy weather

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-cYwzkSqTuE), which ruined my life.
> 
> warning for a brief use of homophobic language.

On the day after the draft, another empty off-season day, Dame brings his coffee outside to drink on his mother’s porch. He’s home, although this new, clean-lined mansion in the hills isn’t what he dreams of, on the nights he dreams about home. The sky is the high, hard unforgiving blue of a California summer, and Oakland nestles itself into the folds of the hills below him, claws its way up the ridge lines, sprawls out in the sun against the water. In the distance, past the tangle of freeways and the AT-AT cranes at the port, he can see San Francisco rise, its blank glass faces glaring out of its fog, looking down across the bay. 

He hasn’t texted CJ back. 

Dame finishes his coffee in one long, bitter pull, then goes back into the kitchen. He should stretch, do a recovery lift, clear his head. It takes him a long moment, head hung, staring at nothing, before he does.

\---

In the end, he doesn’t need to. CJ texts him two days later, a picture of something stupid that made him laugh, and Dame can just reply to that. It only takes a few strings of emojis before that other text from CJ disappears from his phone screen, and he can stop thinking about it.

He meets with his agent, shoots some commercials, goes to a few cook-outs and sees his uncles and aunties and cousins, meets a few new babies. It feels like coming back from space, or from a war; nothing like college. Reality feels brittle, hollow and waking up in the same bed every night is somehow disconcerting. It must be just the end of the season, riding out the adjustment. Nothing else about him has changed. 

“You been quiet,” his mom says, one night after dinner. He’s doing dishes. It was always his chore when he was a kid. He can’t decide if he wants to go out or not, tonight. He’s restless under his skin, feels like he’s only keeping still with effort. It’s not a way he likes to feel.

He shrugs, moving to dry the plates. “Nothing to say,” he says. 

His mom snorts. “I got a call from Ms. McCullom,” she says. Dame drops a plate back into the sink and it spins on its rim, clatters. 

“Mm,” he says. 

“She wants some advice about getting a house in Portland,” she says. 

Dame stays quiet, running his finger around the wet ceramic edge, feeling for broken, sharp edges. 

“You do know CJ got drafted to Portland?” she asks, and Dame turns to look at her, eyebrows up, incredulous. 

“Just checking you’re paying attention,” she says, a little smile on her face. “I told her you’d go up when you have a minute, help him out.”

“What?” Dame says, turning, something trying to claw up and out of his chest. “Mom, I can’t. I don’t.” He takes a breath, trying for neutrality. “I got shit to do.” 

“Damian Lamonte Ollie Lillard,” she says. “What kind of _stuff_ are you doing? Wandering around my house listening to sad music? You buy a ticket and get your butt up to Portland, understand?” 

He can feel his shoulders tense, the knots of muscle forming in the back of his neck. 

“Ok,” he says. 

“Ok,” she says, satisfied.

\---

He heads up to Portland a week later, doesn’t buy a return ticket. He texted CJ the name of his real estate agent already. He’s not really sure what his mom thinks he’s going to do. He could have gotten out of it, if he’d tried. But he didn’t. He isn’t avoiding CJ.

_I’ll see you tomorrow?_ CJ texts, late that night. Dame’s home, lying in his bed, blackout shades drawn, lights out, the only sound the whirr of the air conditioning. 

_Yeah_ Dame texts back, hits send before he can add anything else. Puts his phone face down on the bedside table, locks his hands together over his ribcage, like he’s praying. Falls asleep, eventually, his mind empty, listening to the air conditioner cycle on and off, on and off. 

In the morning, pulls on the first t-shirt he finds in his closet, a pair of tight grey jeans, because the fabric’s thin and he won’t get too hot. He isn’t really hungry, but it means he’s ready too soon, spends twenty minutes standing in his backyard. The air is already hot and dry, the clouds delicate and distant above in the fragile blue eggshell sky. 

He makes himself late picking out a playlist in the car, scrolling through Spotify to find the right thing before giving up, driving over to CJ’s hotel in silence. He keeps himself still in the elevator, lets the older woman getting off on the same floor step off the elevator first, knocks on CJ’s door with short, sharp raps. He rolls his lips together tight. 

CJ answers the door. He looks -- it’s hard to take in all of him, all at once. CJ pulls him in for a hug, and Dame manages to get his hand up in time, locking their palms together between their chests. 

“Hi,” CJ says when they pull apart. “Thanks for coming to get me. You wanna come in? I’m still trying to figure some stuff out. If that’s ok?” 

“Yeah, man,” Dame says, stepping into the room. CJ is looking back over his shoulder at Dame, something wild and open in his eyes that Dame doesn’t want to read. 

He stands leaning against the wall. He doesn’t want to look too closely at CJ, remember the last time they were in a hotel room together. The only other time they’ve been together, really. But there isn’t anywhere else to look. CJ halfway smiles at him.

“I always forget how -- no, you know what, nevermind,” CJ says, stepping back, brown eyes darting to the floor and then back up to Dame’s face, rubbing his forehead self-consciously.

“Forget what?” Dame asks, a smile tugging at the edge of his cheeks despite himself. 

“That I’m taller than you,” CJ says. 

That wasn’t what he was going to say. Dame can’t help himself, can’t help the catch of his breath when CJ’s eyes meet his. He hasn’t been thinking about the night of the lottery. He’s not going to start now, now that CJ is here, his teammate. He tenses his muscles and then consciously relaxes them, wrenches his eyes away from CJ’s face, to the wall an inch to the left of him.

“We cool?” CJ asks. It makes Dame’s pulse spike, his breath speed up. Of course they’re cool. They can’t be anything else. There’s no space for that risk for either of them.

“Cause you know,” CJ says, looking down, an uncomfortable little shrug, “had to shoot my shot. But.” He looks back up. “I got the message, so. We’re good?”

“Yeah,” Dame says, after a moment. His mouth is dry. “We’re good.”

\---

He isn’t. After the day with CJ, walking through empty houses and listening to the real estate lady talk about their “potential,” he works out until there’s a fine, unsupressable shake in his quads when he tries to move. He lies on the mat, his chest heaving, feels the sweat drying on his skin. Pulling himself upright seems like too much effort right now. He rolls to one side and faces his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirrors. Dame doesn’t feel any kind of way about how he looks. There are a lot of things about him which make people pay attention, give him a second look and then a third: the way he plays, sometimes his silence, and sometimes other stuff.

Full body, vivid, he remembers CJ’s thumbs stroking along the hollows of his cheeks, the way his eyes had dropped to Dame’s lips, the shudder running through his body and the crack in his voice when he said, “God, Dame,” the way Dame wanted to wreck him, to --

Dame squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head until the thoughts drop out. He can feel the remnants of them, though, in his pulse, in his blood: insistent, demanding. When he opens his eyes, he sees himself looking back, mouth barely open, lips wet, eyes black with. With nothing. 

He hauls himself up and turns off the lights, heads upstairs in the darkness.

\---

The next day he has to do it all again. It’s still weird to him that CJ is here, in Portland, in his car. It’s only the third time they’ve been together, and Dame can’t help but be aware of the physical fact of him. The way his deadpan breaks and his face cracks into a smile, the way he mouths along to the lyrics of songs, the way he smells. It catches at him constantly and he’s stuck, half-startled over nothing, just the drum of CJ’s fingers on his thigh.

“I’m thinking about getting into coffee,” CJ says, at a red light.

“Yeah?” Dame asks, when the pause goes on long enough he can tell CJ wants an answer. 

“Yeah,” CJ says. They got McDonald’s drive-thru coffee in the morning. Dame doesn’t want to be recognized and even if he’s driving a seventy-five thousand dollar car, habits die hard. “Like, I didn’t even really drink coffee until college because I wanted to grow and my mom said it would make me short, and then sophomore year I figured, well this is as tall as I’m gonna get, and we were doing three-a-days and anyway. I put like, sugar and shit in it, but that’s probably bad for me and it’s a Portland thing, you know?”

Dame makes a right turn, sneaking a glance at CJ while he’s checking his blind spot. “So, if you went to Philly, what, you’d get into cheesesteak or some shit?” 

CJ laughs. “Maybe, man. I guess we’ll never know what I would’ve gotten into.” 

CJ doesn’t mean anything by that, Dame knows, he’s still talking, saying who knows what. But Dame can’t stop the ache in his chest surging upward, filling his mouth like blood he can’t choke back down. Dame hadn’t thought, hadn’t let himself think, the CJ would come to Portland. He’d thought of CJ somewhere else, guarding him two or three or four times a year, seeing him after and then going back to his real life. 

“You can just do that? Get into something?” Dame says, making another turn, aware he’s cutting off whatever CJ’s saying. He knows he’s doing the wrong thing, but he has to say something, release the pressure in his chest or. He doesn’t know. 

CJ’s quiet but not still for a second, looking out the window, running a hand over his mouth, jiggling his leg. 

“I guess you got to want,” CJ says, then stops. “You have to want to try.” He’s still looking out the window, at the wide, green suburban trees, the gingerbread house Victorians, the new world he’s in. Not over at Dame. 

Dame pulls them into the driveway. “We’re here.” He breaks too suddenly. 

The house is nice. The real estate agent walks from room to room, talking about the excellent restoration and character and modern touches, pointing at lights and shit that Dame has never noticed. CJ pays attention, asks questions his mom must have coached him on. 

After the tour, she leaves them both, saying, “I’ll let you two look around,” with her warm, professional smile.

“What do you think?” CJ asks. 

Dame shrugs. “The basement would be good for a gym.” 

“That all you got?” CJ asks. He’s smiling again, arms loose at his sides. “You came all the way up from Oakland to tell me that?” 

“My mom made me,” Dame shoots back, means it to tease CJ but CJ changes, going stiff again, sunlight shut out of his eyes. 

“Right,” he says. “Of course.” He turns around so he’s looking out the window into the backyard and for a second his head hangs down. “Look, I appreciate it, but I got it from here. I know you have.” He pauses and takes a breath. “You have other shit to deal with.”

“It isn’t like that, C,” Dame says, taking a step towards him, reaching a hand up to cup CJ’s shoulder before he thinks about it. CJ doesn’t pull away and Dame can feel how warm he is, the muscles of his shoulder. His grip tightens, thumb digging into CJ’s back, fingers finding the soft dip above his collar bone. His hips are too close to CJ’s, if CJ wanted to he could reach back, could --

CJ turns. CJ was right; it does catch Dame off guard, this close, that CJ is taller than him. 

“Then what’s it like, Dame?” CJ asks. It’s hard to look at CJ looking at him, wondering what he sees, what makes his eyes go soft while his lip quirks up into a smile that isn’t a smile. They’re so close. Dame’s throat is dry; he has to swallow twice before he can speak. 

“It’s not anything,” Dame says. His voice comes out all wrong. He lets go to CJ’s shoulder and takes a step back, hoping it’ll be easier to breath. It isn’t. CJ lets out a long breath, shakes his head a little.

“You should go,” CJ says. “I’ll get an Uber back.” 

“I can stay,” Dame offers. He tries to meet CJ’s eyes but his eyes keep sliding down, to CJ’s mouth, his expanse of his chest. Dame feels his skin heat up. 

“Nah,” CJ says, and Dame’s looking down at CJ’s feet, so he can see CJ shifting his weight back and forth. “It’s good. Really.” Dame manages to look up and CJ stretches a smile. “Like, what you know about houses?” 

Dame snorts a laugh. “True,” he says. He doesn’t know what else to do or say, gives CJ an upward nod and leaves. He manages to resist the urge to look back the whole way down the hall, but at the top of the stairs he does. 

CJ is sitting on the hardwood floor, back to the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, head down. He stops, watches the dust motes float through the panels of golden light from the windows, falling on CJ. Dame’s lost in the curve of CJ’s biceps, the breadth of his shoulders. They’re shaking, just a little. Dame grips the bannister, hard.

Back in the car, he texts CJ _I’ll be around if u need anything_

It takes hours until CJ texts him back: a thumbs up emoji.

\---

Dame stays in Portland. It’s nice to work out in the team facility, get comfortable with the idea of being veteran, an example. He watches old games at home at night, cross-legged on the couch, pausing the game when CJ texts him to text back without missing anything. It’s easier this way, when he can take the time to think about what he wants to say before he says it. He starts to feel a cautious but building optimism about the season. He knows he can lock in and stay locked in.

He’s at the practice facility late one morning, just finished doing cardio when CJ walks in, along with one of the assistant coaches. Dame thought his heart rate was dropping back to baseline but he was wrong; it spikes again, sharp and fast. For just a second, CJ’s face falls, his eyes clouding, but in the time it takes Dame to shakily exhale, his expression is set back to normal. 

CJ’s in street clothes, iced coffee in his hands. CJ’s taking a sip, his cheeks sucked in, lips pursed. Dame can’t hear what the assistant is saying, sound gone fuzzy. He runs his palm down his chest, presses it against his stomach to get the sweat off. 

“Hey,” CJ says, his lips popping off the straw. He reaches a hand out for Dame, it’s cold from the ice when Dame grabs it, and he lets CJ pull him in for a one-armed hug. He’s self-conscious about the way his t-shirt is sticking to his pecs, his back, the way CJ’s forearm presses in, just below his shoulder blades.

“How’s getting into coffee?” Dame asks, when they pull apart. He meets CJ’s eyes for a second.

“Good, it’s cold brew,” CJ smiles, and Dame shouldn’t have looked at him. “Try it.” 

Dame takes the cup out of his hand, their fingers brushing. 

“It’s from a place kind of by my new house,” CJ says, wrapping his arms around himself, his hands running up and down, the smooth slide of skin on skin distracting Dame. “I been asking the baristas for advice and stuff, they’re really nice you know? And like trying to try some new stuff.” 

Dame takes a sip, fast. It’s too acidic for him and he makes a face, making CJ laugh.

“Single origin with notes of cherry,” CJ says, taking it back. “You not getting that?”

“Nope,” Dame says, trying not to picture the barista explaining it all to CJ, leaning in close and conspiratorial.

“I guess it’s not for everyone,” CJ says, shaking the cup in his hands, the ice cubes melting into and against each other. “Sorry for interrupting.” 

“I’m gonna shoot around a little,” Dame says, “if you want?” 

CJ looks from the assistant coach to Dame and then back again, running his teeth over his plush lips. “I think I’m supposed to meet Olshey later. Another time though?” 

Dame nods, like he doesn’t feel anything about it. Emotion doesn’t have any place in his game, in the gym or on the court. It doesn’t matter what he wants from CJ -- he can’t want anything from CJ, because they’re teammates now. CJ and the coach walk out, heading to the next stop on their tour, and Dame doesn’t watch them leave, turning back to the rack of weights. He has work to do.

\---

Preseason starts and it’s easier; it has to be. CJ’s attention is divided between a hundred different things, face intent during practice when Dame looks over at him. Dame remembers how overwhelming the start of rookie year was, and he knows what the person he should be would do, how a leader would take CJ aside, encourage him, give him tips on his footwork. So he does.

CJ comes over for dinner a few days in, flopping down on Dame’s couch, his legs hanging over the edge. 

“Oh my god,” CJ says, collapsing back, looking up at the ceiling. Dame sits on the floor, his back leaning against the couch, legs stretched out, looking straight ahead at the dark tv, blank walls. He needs to get some pictures or something. “Tell me it gets easier.”

Dame shrugs and CJ hits him on the shoulder. Dame doesn’t flinch, even though the fabric of his shirt is worn thin. He’s used to having CJ around, now, in his space, the cadence of his voice. “That’s not very encouraging,” CJ says. “Aren’t you supposed to like, build me up?” 

“It’s hard now because you out of shape,” Dame says, and he can feel CJ sit up behind him. 

“Excuse me, I am not out of shape,” CJ says. “Just because I’m not -- I’m all muscle, man. This is all muscle.” He hears the slap of CJ’s hand against his stomach and he can’t help but think of the night of the draft lottery, the dirty yellow light of New York midnight filtered through the hotel room window, tracing his hand along the edge of CJ’s abs to the curve of his hip bone. 

“It’ll be hard later,” Dame says, with effort, “because you get tired. You lose focus.” 

“Not me,” CJ says, “eyes on the prize.” He’s quiet for a second, and Dame can feel the heat of his body against the back of his neck. “Discipline. Head in the game. Laser focus. That’s me.” 

Dame hauls himself up to standing ignoring the protests from his quads, his ankles, the center of his chest. “Let’s eat.”

“I’m tired,” CJ calls, as Dame walks away from him, “bring the food in?” Dame turns around to flip him off, except then he can see CJ’s sharp smile, his soft cheeks curved like peaches. 

“Sure,” Dame says, and goes.

\---

Dame’s not even on the court when it happens; he’s off with a photographer, looking into a ring of white light. The photographer keeps asking him to smile, or to look like he’s angry or whatever, but Dame keeps his expression set.

From the court, he hears a change in the background chatter, a drop in the volume. Dame turns his head and hears the shutter click. His jaw tightens and it clicks again. 

“One sec,” he says, jogging down the tunnel. At the entrance to the court, he sees CJ, one arm over Will Barton’s, the other over one of the trainer’s. His left foot isn’t on the floor and Dame knows.

“C,” he says, coming forward, bumping Will out of the way so CJ can lean against him. CJ lets his head drop against Dame’s, their temples brushing. 

“Your foot?” he asks, and he can feel CJ nod against him. He tightens his grip against CJ’s hip, and CJ makes a small, broken noise. They’re almost back to the locker room. 

“It’s gonna be ok,” Dame says, “it’s prolly a bruise or a sprain or something.” As he says it, he looks across at the trainer, and he can see the way she shakes her head she doesn’t agree. “It’s gonna be ok,” he repeats.

He’s trying to help maneuver CJ into the trainer’s room when an assistant comes back for him. 

“Dame,” he says, “you’re not done out there.” 

CJ grabs his wrist, his fingers tight. Dame knows CJ wants him to stay; CJ can’t ask, a rookie in his second week. Dame could, maybe, but if he did he knows how it would look. Like he thinks he’s someone, like what he wants it more important than the team. Like CJ matters more to him than he’s supposed to. 

“Yeah,” he says, “coming.” 

CJ lowers himself down onto the exam table, head hung, hunched. He’s still holding Dame’s wrist. 

“It’s gonna be ok,” Dame says. He has to go, but he doesn’t want CJ to let go of him but he can’t break his grip. “I’ll text you ok?”

“Ok,” CJ says, his voice soft as he lets go, hands falling into his lap. Dame doesn’t let himself look back.

\---

_What they say_

_It’s broken again _

_Fuck  
Where u at u home_

_Im going to LA for surgery _

_Already? _

_Im stopping by home to get some stuff but yeah tonight we flying i guess _

_Want me to meet you?  
C?_

_Just landed  
Surgery tomorrow  
Can u tell me i’ll be ok_

_You’ll be fine they do so many surgeries like this  
You’ll be back before u know it  
Praying for you man  
U prolly already in surgery  
Text me when u wake up _

\---

This time around, there isn’t much that Dame can offer CJ. When CJ was in college, when they first started talking, Dame could tell him what to expect with rehab, how long it would all last. Now, CJ knows all of that. When he’s back at the practice facility a week later, he looks furious. Dame can see it under the smiles he gives everyone. No one here really knows him, and when they slap CJ on the back and wish him good luck, Dame knows they stop thinking about him as soon as they turn around.

Dame doesn’t. After practice, after shooting around for another two hours, he goes back into the weight room. CJ is standing one-footed on a balance board, squatting low, catching a weighted ball a trainer’s throwing to him. 

He’s just wearing shorts and a Lehigh shirt and the shorts are riding up his thighs. Dame can see the lines of muscle, the fine sheen of sweat. The curve of his ass as he dips down lower, the inward dip of his lower back. 

CJ looks over at him and loses his balance, falling off the board. 

“Fuck,” he says, catching himself awkwardly on his bad foot. 

“How’s it going,” Dame asks, a little too far away to touch. 

CJ shakes his head, looking over at the trainer, who’s pulled out her phone and looks like she’s texting. He lowers his voice anyway. “It fucking sucks, man. I hate this shit so much. I’m just.” He rubs a hand across his face, his eyes blank and miserable, his mouth a tight line. It twists something up inside Dame. “I hate it.” 

“Finish up here and let’s go out,” Dame says. He means to clap him on the shoulder, but ends up holding on.

CJ looks even worse, long lines around his mouth. “I. I don’t know if I should. I’m pretty tired still and. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“You got to get out of your head,” Dame says. “I’ll pick you up later, ok?”

“Ok,” CJ says, after a long moment. “I’ll see you.”

\---

They end up somewhere dark and a little bit grimy. Dame leaves CJ sitting at a booth and goes to get them drinks. It isn’t anywhere near nice enough for bottle service, and he doesn’t want to make CJ walk more than he has to.

It’s already crowded. When Dame looks back over his shoulder at CJ, there’s someone else sitting with him, long hair falling over their face as they’ve turned in towards CJ. It makes sense a girl would want to talk to CJ; he’s easy to listen to, leaning forward with a joke, his lips quirking and his eyes flashing. A girl touches Dame’s shoulder, tries to say something to him, but she’s too short to hear and he shrugs, keeps going. 

At the bar, Dame gets them both drinks, gets himself an extra shot. He knocks it back at the bar, a quick burn on the back of his throat. The bartender waves him off when he tries to pay, leaning in low to get the shot glass back. On his way through the crowd he can see CJ, leaning in towards the girl, imagines he can see the white flash of his smile, hear his laugh over the thought-obliterating baseline. 

He slides into the booth, intending to give CJ his drink, make CJ look good, tell the girl what a big deal he is. CJ probably has, but in the joking way he has where you don’t believe him even though he’s telling the truth. 

Except it’s not a girl. The guy, _the guy,_ has long dark hair that falls in soft waves, a little bit of stubble on his face. His eyes are locked on CJ, his hands, with chipped nail polish, a bunch of tiny rings, are resting close to CJ’s. 

“Oh, hey Dame,” CJ says, looking over at him. “This is Peter.” 

“Hey,” the guy, Peter, says, looking away from CJ quickly. His gaze barely sticks on Dame before going back to CJ. Dame folds his arms across his chest, can feel his eyes narrowing just a little. 

Peter keeps talking to CJ, tugging his hair behind his ears, sucking on the top of his beer bottle for a little too long after every pull. “You should stop by the brewery some time,” he says, “we’re working on a really good IPA, I could give you a tour.” 

“That’d be cool,” CJ says. “I’m still trying to figure the city out, I need all the help I can get.” 

Dame snorts. CJ isn’t going to have time to be doing whatever pointless shit with this guy; he’s going to be an NBA player. When he’s even in Portland he’s going to be too tired to do anything but practice, eat and sleep. 

CJ kicks at him under the table. “Don’t mind him,” CJ says to Peter. “He thinks he knows everything. It’s annoying.” 

Peter snorts. He might be wearing eyeliner. If he leaned in any closer to CJ he’d be in his lap. “I had an ex like that,” he says. CJ’s expression goes unnaturally smooth and flat just for a second, and Dame can feel talons digging between his ribs, gouging at his heart. “It’s the worst.” 

Dame must make a sound, because both CJ and Peter look over at him. He tries to smooth out his face.

“Sorry,” Peter says, “are y’all...?”

“No,” CJ says, “but you’re not the only person who’s thought that. Dame just has no understanding of interpersonal boundaries and he gets away with it because he looks like that.” 

Peter frowns a little, probably trying to parse that. Dame doesn’t even try to. “Well, good luck with that,” he says to CJ. He pulls out a pen and writes his number done on a napkin, slides it to CJ, like that’s an actual thing people do. “Text me if you want that tour.” 

After he’s gone, CJ kills his drink in one long pull. “You know, he kind of reminded me of my college boyfriend,” he says, looking over his shoulder in the direction Peter went. CJ looks back at Dame before he’s had a chance to control his expression. “Or is that something else we aren’t talking about?” 

Dame squeezes his hands into fists under the table. “What’s there to talk about?” he says, finally, tone even. “It is what it is.” 

“Sure,” CJ says. “What could there possibly be for you and me to talk about other than my fucking jump shot. Nothing I can think of. It’s not like I sucked your dick and you --” 

Dame gets up and walks away. His hands are shaking. He’s never wanted to hit someone so badly, to get his hands on them, to choke CJ until he can’t say anything anymore, until all he can say is Dame’s name.

\---

It’s a relief to go on the road when the season starts. They swing back east for a long road trip; they’re in Brooklyn, their seventh win in a row. It feels good; it feels strange. Dame isn’t used to the team winning like this, to the way the game is starting to slow down for him, the way he can see plays unfolding three seconds before they do.

Some of the guys go out after the game, but Dame goes back to the hotel. In the elevator he checks his phone. CJ’s texted him. 

_Nice assist in the third_

_Thanks_ Dame texts back. _Rehab ok?_

CJ sends back a selfie, face in an exaggerated pout. Dame huffs a smile. He hasn’t been back to New York since the draft lottery. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to text CJ back. After that night in the bar, he kept expecting things to change. That CJ would want to talk about his ex-boyfriend, or about something else, that he’d keep pushing Dame until Dame would have to pull all the way back. But he hadn’t. 

The room is the same too-small New York hotel room it always is, the same sirens over the sound of the air conditioning. Dame is so tired. He looks down at his phone again, trying to think what he’s supposed to text CJ back. 

His thoughts are smoky, drifting and settling into the corners of his memory. After the lottery, he and CJ had gone out. Dame had felt giddy with it, like he was a teenager cutting class. He hadn’t been able to stop laughing at CJ, the dumb shit he was saying, even funnier when Dame could hear his voice, see his face. 

He doesn’t even remember where they’d gone, some packed, half-themed bar where they’d drunk terrible margaritas until Dame got brain freeze, had to press his hand to his forehead and CJ had giggled, pressed his face against Dame’s shoulder. 

Dame stretches out on the bed, the air conditioning cold on his skin. He presses his palm flat to his stomach. He’s hard. He can’t help himself, pops the fly on his jeans, reaches down.

That night, back in CJ’s room, they’d talked until it had been, late, too late. And Dame had said something stupid and revealing, and CJ’s eyes were so soft and then his lips were. 

Dame jerks himself off thinking about CJ on his knees in front of him, the sounds he’d made, the way his hand had cradled CJ’s head. He remembers pulling CJ up, CJ’s lips slick, the ruined taste of himself on them. CJ asking for it, dropping his head to Dame’s shoulder as Dame ran a hand down his back, over his ass.

CJ kissed the junction of his neck and shoulders, ground down onto his dick. He was so hard; they both were, and CJ said his name. Dame wanted him so badly he tasted it like blood in his mouth, an unbearable need electric with potential. He had to, and he had. 

They were face to face, CJ’s hand clumsy between them. CJ couldn’t stop looking at him, his eyes so open, disbelieving, adoring. Dame bit CJ’s lip, drove into him. He was holding the headboard too hard, his other hand gripping CJ’s sweat-slick back, nails digging in. 

Even now, alone in his hotel room, his hand speeds up and he bites the inside of his lips, curls his toes. He needs to be inside CJ, to make CJ feel it, to make CJ his, his bones buzzing with it. He tightens his fist, thinks about how CJ clenched around him, shuddered, begged, came, and comes. 

He lies dazed on the bed for a while, somewhere between awake and asleep. Finally, he startles out of a dream he doesn’t remember. His phone is still on the bed next to him. 

_Just 3 more weeks_ he texts CJ, _U can do it_.

\---

Once CJ is back with the team, Dame does his best to keep things casual. He tells himself he doesn’t know what CJ wants. It’s true. He knows what CJ wanted, after the draft, because CJ sent that text to him, the text which Dame was too stupid to delete. CJ can’t want that anymore, not after how Dame has treated him. Which was the point.

He can tell CJ is pissed off, with not playing, with how his injury set him back. Maybe with Dame, although he still treats Dame with the same easy openness. At the end of practice, they have to make five in a row, a stupid, quick drill. Dame’s already made his, and is gearing himself for the practice that starts after practice. He watches CJ: lay-up, lay-up off the dribble, three from the top of the arc. The court is emptying, rookies always go last, and Dame can see something dangerous in the set of CJ’s shoulders. He drives into the basket, dunks, hard. Dame looks down to re-tie his shoes, worried about CJ’s foot on the landing even though CJ is fine. 

“Wanna see something cool, Barton?” CJ asks, and Will Barton, who has stuck around too, watching CJ, nods. CJ backs up, gets low and makes a show of dribbling, faking to the left and the right like he’s a kid pretending to be Allen Iverson on the playground, before pulling up. He’s a little off balance when he tries to bank the ball in, and it bounces off the rim. 

“Five more, McCollum,” an assistant says, looking up from his clipboard. “And don’t get cute.” 

“Should have gone in,” Will says, clapping CJ on the shoulder. “Get it done so we can leave.”

“Yeah, yeah.” CJ sets his shoulders, goes to the free throw line. He misses his first two and his body gets tighter. Dame’s just crouched on the court, watching him, when he should be doing anything else. CJ shakes his head, and Dame can see the lines next to his mouth, his thunderclap eyes. 

He makes five quickly after that, Will feeding him the ball. Will hugs him when he’s done, big, like he’s just won a championship. CJ’s laughing, until he turns and see Dame, watching him. Dame drops his eyes but not fast enough; he sees CJ’s face drop again.

“Of course you were watching,” CJ says, and he sounds tired. “Why wouldn’t you be. Well, Dame, any pointers? What am I supposed to be doing to actually get minutes, huh?”

Dame feels like he’s been triple-teamed, like he’s trying to find the open man and failing. There must be a right answer but he doesn’t know what it is. 

“Loosen up and make sure you keep your shoulders square.” He stands up, wiping his hands on his shorts. “I usually run some drills after, if you want to stick around.” He takes a deep breath and makes himself look at CJ, who is looking back, his mouth twisted to one side. “You too, Will,” he makes himself continue. 

The buzz of the lights, the squeak of CJ’s sneaker against the floor as he runs his foot forward and back, they all seem louder, the cold fluorescent light unforgiving, all-revealing. 

“Will and I were gonna eat,” CJ says, at the same time that Will says, “sure, why not?”

“Cool,” Dame says, after a beat, when CJ doesn’t disagree. “Uh, let’s get started.”

\---

Dame goes longer and harder than he meant to. CJ complains the whole time, about the plans he had and how is mom is worrying and how pointless it is to practice shots from this far back. He does everything anyway.

When Dame is so tired he has to admit they’re done, the sweat on his palms making even his callouses slick, CJ collapses onto the court like he’s dying.

“Oh my god,” CJ says, sprawled out, his arms wide and his legs spread. “You do this every day?”

Dame shrugs, trying to stretch out his quads, still panting. 

“No wonder you look like that,” CJ says, up towards the ceiling. Dame’s heart stops in his chest. 

“Nah, that shit’s all genetic,” Will says, coming back with a few bottles of Gatorade. He throws one to Dame and hands the other to CJ. “You should see his mom.”

Dame rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother answering. CJ reaches an arm up and Dame grabs it before Will can, pulling CJ to his feet. He relishes the pull; knows CJ has been getting stronger, can feel it. CJ stumbles forward, catching himself with a hand on Dame’s chest. They’re touching more than they have since New York, Dame’s grip firm and high on CJ’s forearm so that CJ’s smooth inner skin is pressed against his tattoos. CJ’s holding him too, his fingers almost spanning the muscle just below Dame’s elbow. CJ’s hand is pressed over Dame’s heart, the kind of pressure that makes it hard to breath, and Dame can feel the warmth of his body, smell him. He tightens his hand around CJ. Their eyes meet and Dame can’t look away, caught. Their lips are so close. 

“Dinner?” Will says, and Dame flinches. CJ pulls away, Dame’s hand sliding across his skin until he can make himself let go. “Dame, you in?”

Dame shakes his head. “Recovery stuff.” His voice doesn’t come out right. 

“Cool,” Will says, giving Dame an upward nod and walking away. CJ follows a beat later. It isn’t until he’s almost at the door, when Dame’s given up, that he darts a look back before he’s gone.

\---

New Year’s Day, CJ gets sent down to the D league. Dame is still lying in bed, hungover and dissatisfied, when CJ calls. The call scares him; he and CJ don’t call each other, and his heart is already going too fast when he answers.

“C? Everything ok?”

“I’m going to Idaho,” CJ says, without preamble. 

It stuns Dame. He knows CJ hasn’t been playing but it’s not his fault; he’s been injured, rehabbing, staying after practice with Dame even though he obviously hates it. Dame knows lots of players go down to the D league to get minutes. He knows that.

“I never played in the D league,” Dame says.

“Fuck, Dame, I get it,” CJ snaps. “I know all you think about is basketball, I know you work out 12 hours a day and you’re beautiful and everyone throws themselves at you and you’re gonna be in the fucking Hall of Fame, ok? You’re perfect and nothing distracts you. But I’m just trying --” CJ takes a shaky breath, then another, more steady one. “I’m trying my best, ok?” 

“I meant,” Dame’s brain is stuck on _beautiful_, like a ball trapped between the backboard and the basket. “I don’t know how to help you, because I haven’t.” 

“You don’t,” CJ’s voice is tight. “You don’t need to help me. I was never your friend because you were helping me with -- whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“CJ,” Dame feels like he’s going to throw up. “I’m trying.” He can’t say anything else, his throat is closing up. 

“I know you are,” CJ says, and he sounds exhausted too. “I know. I gotta pack but I’ll see you when I get back, ok?”

“Soon,” Dame gets out, “it’ll be soon.”

“Ok, Dame,” CJ says and Dame covers his eyes with the back of his arm, bites his lip to keep his breathing silent. “See you soon.”

\---

Dame ends up going for a run along the river. It’s raining, miserable and raw, on the edge of freezing. The river is a flat, unforgiving grey and the sky matches. The bridges cut dark lines through both.

He tries to lock himself back down. Of course CJ is going to come back, rookies go down to the D league all the time. It’ll be good for him; he wants to play and he’ll get minutes, show the coaches what he can do. CJ won’t bounce up and down until he’s traded. He’s precious, a first round pick. 

And some distance might be good. It would be good. It would be. He stops at a look out point, the pavement slick, the only sound his raw breath, the water rushing around the pylons. His hands are numb. He can get himself back under control. 

They have a game that night. Dame skips his pre-game nap to take a hot shower, sitting under the spray. He keeps expecting it to run cold, like it would have growing up, but it never does. 

Coach pulls him during the second and lets Wesley Matthews rip him a new one for fucking up the defensive rotation. The worst part is how much Dame knows he deserves it, the way he can see all his mistakes crystal clear in his mind. They lose. Dame feels like shit, showers again until his skin feels shriveled. 

He’d thought if CJ weren’t his teammate, if he weren’t there on the bench every night, Dame wouldn’t think about him so much. That if CJ were in another state it would be like he hadn’t gotten drafted to the Blazers at all, a safe and separate thing. But even with the Rocky Mountains between them, Dame feels like he can’t breathe around the shape of him. It isn’t fair. He shouldn’t feel this way about someone he’s barely touched in months. He should have smothered this months ago, but he’s still burning. 

His house echoes with emptiness and even in bed, under the covers, he feels it. _Hope u made it to Idaho ok_ he texts. Long after he should be asleep, he sees his phone light up with the reply. 

_Yeah_.

\---

Four days later, Dame walks into practice and CJ is there. It feels like he ran head first into a wall. Will’s chatting with CJ, laughing, and Dame makes himself go over.

“Quick trip,” he says. He wants to touch so badly, and when CJ puts out a hand he pulls CJ in for a hug, letting himself press his face into the junction of CJ’s neck and shoulders. CJ’s arms are loose around his back. Dame allows himself one inhale, lets his forehead just brush CJ’s skin before he pulls away. 

“Yeah,” CJ says, when he pulls back. “It was great. Idaho. Potatoes, snow, mountains. White people? Cows? Something like that.” 

“We’re glad you’re back, C,” Will says. “Dame was a mess. He almost played as shitty as I did.” 

Dame looks into the space over CJ’s shoulder, his face expressionless. 

“Anyway,” Will says, slapping Dame on the back, “see you later.” 

“A mess,” CJ says, and when Dame turns to look towards him he’s almost smiling. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Dame shrugs. “Barton thinks he knows everything.” He wishes he had pockets to put his hands in, settles for clasping his arms behind his back. He can’t stop looking at CJ, the quirk of his lips, the way his eyebrows move when he’s thinking. The pre-practice cacophony of the gym feels warm and familiar, the hardwood golden butter yellow. He likes seeing CJ here. 

CJ opens his mouth, then closes it, shakes his head. “You still doing all that shit after practice?” he asks, eventually. 

“Yeah,” Dame says. “You should stay. For it.” 

CJ gulps. Coach blows a whistle, piercing, and they have to go circle up. But midway through his description of the drill, Dame looks up and CJ is still watching at him, his eyes wide.

\---

CJ plays against Orlando and they win. He’s two for five from the field with a steal; his first NBA points. After the game, he can’t stop smiling, his cheeks stretched wide by it. Dame can’t stop looking at him, wants to hold him so tight they disappear into each other, wants the stabbing permanent ache of CJ on his skin like a tattoo.

“We should go out,” CJ says, bouncing, up and down, and Dame can’t tell him no, that there’s nothing in Orlando worth doing. 

“Of course,” Robin Lopez says, lifting CJ off the ground with a hug and then giving him a noogie. “We gotta fuck you up, rook.” Dame looks down at the ground, jaw tight, conscious that CJ’s watching him.

They go to some place overpriced, that’s trying too hard. CJ’s having a good time, though, and Dame lets himself sit back and watch, sipping his drink until the ice is long-melted. CJ beams. He dances with a couple of girls, but Dame can see the space between his hips and theirs, pretends he’s watching that and not CJ, his solid thighs, the curve of his ass, the self-conscious way he moves. He dances with Robin, who gives him a shot and then dips CJ like he’s a girl in a black and white movie. When Will comes up to him with another drink, he drinks that too, his head tilted back and his throat working. Dame digs his fingers into his thigh under the table. He fucked CJ’s mouth. He can’t think about it or he won’t be able to stop. 

Dame watches CJ, imagines he can hear his laugh over the music, imagines he can taste his skin, rolling his glass between his fingers. Finally, he can’t take it anymore, kills the rest of his drink and strides over to where CJ is at the bar. He leans against the bar, next to where CJ is collapsed against Will, giggling. 

“Dame!” CJ says. “I wondered when you were gonna stop acting like a serial killer.” His eyes meet Dame’s, too steady and clear for how he’s acting. He looks up through his eyelashes and steals Will’s drink out of his hands, takes a long sip. “LaMarcus says I can’t get any more drinks.” 

Will laughs, taking the drink back, and Dame thinks about how much better his game is than Will’s. CJ just keeps smiling, his eyes shining in the low light like embers. 

“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” Dame says, looking resolutely at CJ’s forehead. 

He somehow manages to get CJ into a car, but Will and LaMarcus and Robin are there too, and Robin pops the champagne bottle that’s in the mini-bar. CJ takes it from him, drinks with the bottle to his lips, bubbles running down his chin. He wipes his chin and collapses back ecstatically against the leather next to Dame. 

“This is fun,” he says, to no one in particular. Dame feels like he’s on fire. He wants to punch Robin for laughing, Will for the knowing curve of his smile. 

When they get to the hotel, Will and Robin stagger away, leaving CJ doubled over next to the valet stand. Dame carefully rubs his back, breathing in the marsh-thick humid air that does nothing to ground him.

“Well, he’s your problem,” LaMarcus says, in the long-suffering tone of a veteran who can’t believe a rookie might throw up on his shoes. “He’s your little brother.”

“He’s not my brother.” CJ choses that moment, unhelpfully, to say. He looks up at Dame with whiskey eyes and Dame can feel the notches of his spine through his soft t-shirt. 

LaMarcus shrugs with profound indifference. “Still your problem, Lillard.”

Dame guides him through the lobby, conscious of the eyes on them, CJ humming tunelessly to himself. They’re quiet in the elevator. Dame watches CJ’s reflection in the polished doors, his head back, eyes closed. The ding for their floor startles Dame.

“You know the way to your room?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” CJ says, but he follows Dame the wrong way down the hallway.

“Where you going?” Dame asks him, his voice harsher than he intends. 

“To see Will,” CJ says, and something about the curve his bottom lip makes Dame want to pin him against the wall. 

“Don’t,” Dame says. 

“Don’t what?” CJ asks, innocently. “Have friends?”

“You know,” Dame says, furiously swiping his key card and opening his door, hustling CJ into his room. They aren’t doing this in the hallway. 

CJ flops down on the bed, loose grin like he just beat Dame at one on one. “No idea.”

His legs are spread wide; Dame can see where the denim is worn high up between CJ’s thighs. Dame turns away so CJ can’t see his expression. 

“Will’s fine. Peter, whoever, they’re fine. Just.” Dame tries to breathe. “Don’t do this to me.” His voice doesn’t crack. 

“To you?” CJ says and Dame can hear the creak of the bed as he stands. “Or what, you’ll walk out the door again? Not text me back for two days? Tell me what the fuck have I ever done to you except came when you called and bent over when you asked.” 

Dame can’t speak. He wants to run but he’s rooted to the spot, his muscles so tense he doesn’t think he can move them. He can sense CJ behind him, the shift in the air, the heat of his body. 

When he doesn’t reply, CJ snorts an ugly laugh. “I don’t even get what your problem is. You don’t want me, but I can’t have anyone else because what. Is it gonna be bad for my game, because it’s not like I’m getting minutes anyway. You worried people’ll think you’re a fag? Because I hate to tell you, Lillard, after the shit we did --” 

Dame spins, shoves CJ back against the wall. They’re pressed together, and Dame feels his heart exploding in his chest. His eyes are stuck on CJ’s mouth, his soft, plush lips. He can’t make himself face CJ. He straightens his neck and does. 

CJ’s eyes are wide. His hand is lifted, hovering inches away from Dame’s cheek. “See, this is the shit you gotta stop.” CJ’s voice shakes. “Because it’s fucking with my head. Pretty bad.” 

Dame grips his t-shirt harder, feels like he’s about to tear the fabric apart. “When you said, after you got drafted.” He knows it’s not fair but he kisses CJ, deep, biting, trying to lose himself in it. CJ kisses back, opens his mouth and lets Dame in and Dame just wants to take and take. He pulls back. CJ’s panting. “When you texted me and said. It was everything you.” He kisses him again, like he can get away with not saying the words, like he can tie him and CJ together with it. CJ’s hard against his thigh, Dame’s hard too, rubs against CJ. CJ’s holding onto his shoulders now, tight and Dame can’t think. 

“I can’t feel stuff normally,” Dame says, against CJ’s mouth. “I.” He’s choking on the words, doesn’t know how to explain he thought he couldn’t feel all this and live. CJ kisses him again and Dame pushes into him, his whole weight and body, and then drops to his knees.

His hands fumble with CJ’s belt and CJ’s saying his name. Dame pushes CJ’s hips back against the wall one handed, draws him out with the other. He wants to swallow CJ whole, possess him entirely and indelibly. He settles for gripping the base of CJ’s dick and sucking the head into his mouth. 

It’s easy, easier than he thought it would be. CJ stays so still his thighs are shaking, says Dame’s name over and over, brokenly. He likes the way CJ tastes, runs his tongue back and forth chasing it. After a little, he loosens his hold on CJ’s hip, pushes him forward. CJ’s voice breaks and Dame takes him deeper. He’s so hard, thinks _mine_ on repeat, urging CJ on. 

“Dame?” CJ says, pushing just a little on Dame’s shoulder. “I’m. I’m close.” 

Dame pulls back, leaves the tip in his mouth and looks up at CJ, his wide, desperate eyes. “God, Dame,” he says, ghosting his thumb along Dame’s cheekbone, and Dame hums just a little, in satisfaction. He presses a kiss to the head and sits back on his heels, considering the way CJ’s watching him, the way he called Dame beautiful. He takes CJ’s hand and wraps it around his spit-slick dick. 

“On me,” he says, and CJ gasps, his hips and his hand speeding up, his eyes squeezed shut, and comes on Dame's face. CJ falls to his knees, running his fingers across Dame’s skin, kissing his cheeks and his lips and his chin, just under his eye, licking Dame clean. His whole body shivers, his hands gripping Dame tight and then releasing. 

“Oh my god,” he says, over and over, between messy, inelegant kisses. “Oh my god, oh my god.” Dame wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand, pulls it away to see the come there, feeling a dark glow of satisfaction. “Dame,” CJ says, brokenly, resting his head on Dame’s shoulder, his back rising and falling with his breaths. 

Dame kisses the edge of his temple and CJ shakes again. “Please keep talking to me,” he says, in a small voice. “I don’t care, I. Don’t need this, it’s fine if you can’t. Just don’t ignore me again.” 

Dame feels like there’s no more air in his lungs, an icy hand constricting his throat. They’re both still dressed and Dame pushes his hand under CJ’s shirt with unbearable, impossible urgency, needing to touch him, to keep touching him. CJ huddles into him.

“It’s everything to me, too,” Dame leans down so he can press his lips into the top of CJ’s head. He shuts his eyes because it’s easier that way. “I was so scared of how much I felt.” CJ’s skin is so smooth under his palm. Dame’s chest still feels like it’s being crushed. “I’m sorry. If you still want.” He has to pause to breath in CJ’s familiar smell, “me, I’m. What you asked for, after the draft. I want that. I always did.”

CJ surges forward, kissing him so hard he topples back onto the ground, jamming a thigh between Dame’s legs. “Again,” he says, groping uselessly at Dame’s pants with one hand while Dame grinds into him, shamelessly. “Say it again.” 

“I want to be with you,” Dame says into the warm enveloping space between them. “If you want me,” he gasps, as CJ leans back to lick his own hand and then wraps it around Dame’s dick. He pushes helplessly into CJ’s hand, “I want you.” It’s so good, CJ is so good.

“Idiot,” CJ says, and Dame laughs, and rolls them over.

“You’re the most important thing,” Dame bites kisses into CJ’s neck next to the words, and fucks down into CJ’s hand. 

“God,” CJ says, and Dame finds his mouth and comes, kissing him again and again.

They make it to the bed, CJ laughing and pulling off the rest of their clothes, and nestle under the covers. Dame can’t be bothered to turn off the light, giving into the warm, enveloping lassitude. They wrap around each other, and Dame half-shuts his eyes. CJ traces the lines of his tattoos from one shoulder across his chest to the other. Dame curls into him, at ease and at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it.
> 
> thank you to [Emmy](http://veryspecificfantasties.tumblr.com) for going above and beyond to help me with this, as well as to [Molly](https://rudehumpbackwhale.tumblr.com) and [jamwingles](http://jamwingles.tumblr.com). 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.


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